‘I gave them the apartment in Campo Santa Maria Mater Domini, years ago, when they were still married. She kept it after the divorce.’ She spoke in a low, tight voice. ‘I made her a monthly payment. I paid her bills, and Manuela’s. I paid for the horse, the lessons, the stable, even the horse’s food. When her mother asked for more, something in me snapped and I refused.’ She looked at Brunetti, waiting for his response.
‘I see,’ Brunetti said.
‘After it happened, her mother told me that Manuela had got worse because she didn’t go to see someone.’ She paused, then volunteered, ‘Later I learned that my son had given her the money, but she never sent Manuela to see a psychologist.’
Brunetti realized that she was not going to say any more, and so he asked, ‘Did you see her soon before the incident?’
‘No. Every time I phoned, her mother told me Manuela wasn’t there.’
‘How long did this go on?’
‘Until about a week before it happened, when she finally let me talk to Manuela on the phone.’ The Contessa folded her arms across her chest as though the room had suddenly grown very cold. ‘I asked her how she was, and she said she was fine; then she asked me how I was, and I gave her the same answer. But she didn’t sound fine to me. She didn’t sound all right at all.’
‘And then?’
‘A week later, my son called me in the middle of the night to tell me what had happened.’ She looked up at the ceiling and began to nod her head repeatedly, giving assent to something Brunetti didn’t understand.
‘So you didn’t see her again before it happened?’
‘No.’
Brunetti pulled out his notebook and opened it. ‘I’d like you to give me the telephone number for your daughter-in-law, and your own,’ he said. She gave him both numbers from memory, and he wrote them down.
‘Do you know the names of any of Manuela’s friends, people she knew here or went to school with? Boyfriends, if she had any.’
While he was thinking of what else she might be able to tell him, the Contessa said, ‘Those are things you’ll have to ask her mother. I think Manuela’s lost contact with her friends.’ Hearing that, she edited it: ‘Or they’ve lost touch with her.’
He had once believed that people, parents in particular, would notice unusual behaviour in their children, but he had found that this was often not the case. Most people were observant only in retrospect.
‘What sort of terms are you on with her?’
‘My daughter-in-law?’ the Contessa asked, then immediately corrected herself. ‘My ex-daughter-in-law?’ She thought about this for a moment, then answered, ‘It depends on the day.’
Brunetti almost laughed, so at odds was the remark with the tension of their conversation, but the Contessa was in earnest, painful earnest.
‘Because of what?’
‘That depends on the day, as well,’ she said with what sounded like concern gone bad. ‘It could be depression or the pills she takes for it, or it could be alcohol. It doesn’t matter to me. I call her when I want to see Manuela and go for a walk with her or perhaps have her here for the afternoon.’ She paused, and Brunetti suspected she was considering how much she could reveal to him. ‘A woman lives with them, Alina, a Ukrainian woman who used to work for me. She takes care of Manuela.’ Then she added, ‘It’s better for Manuela to be there. She lived with her mother after the divorce, and it seemed to calm her to be with her again. And in a home she was familiar with.’
‘Does she remember it?’
‘It seems so. But there are times when she forgets who people are. Then sometimes she remembers them again because she’s very affectionate with them.’ An emotion Brunetti could not recognize moved across her face. ‘It’s as if she remembers the emotion even if she can’t remember the person.’
‘I’m sorry,’ was again the only thing Brunetti could think of to say.
She surprised him by answering, quite normally, ‘Thank you.’
He thought it made no sense, at this point, to try to talk to the girl. Probably not until he knew more about her or what she had been like before . . . before she was damaged. But then it crashed down upon him that he didn’t know how much the girl would understand of what was said to her.
He turned a page in his notebook. ‘What was the name of the man who pulled her out of the water?’ he asked.
‘Pietro Cavanis,’ she answered. ‘I’m sure your colleagues can tell you about him.’
Brunetti smiled his thanks. ‘I’ll talk to them tomorrow. Is he still living in Santa Croce?’
‘I don’t know. I never spoke to him again.’
He found this strange but said nothing. He had no more questions, at least none he wanted to ask now. ‘If I have to speak to you again . . . ?’
‘I’m always here,’ the Contessa said. ‘Unless I go to see Manuela.’ She sat quietly but then added, ‘Well, it’s more often that Manuela visits me.’ Her face was transformed by a smile of such surprising warmth that Brunetti was forced to turn away his eyes.
‘Can she get here herself?’ he asked, somehow ashamed of the question.